BY HENRI LASSERRE.
The full and complete history of the remarkable apparition of Lourdes is now, for the first time, presented to the English-speaking Catholic public. Mr. Lawlor has given an abridgment of M. Lasserre's narrative, with some interesting additions from other sources, in his charming volume,Pilgrimages in the Pyrenees and Landes. A short sketch of the history of the events at Lourdes has also been given in theIrish Ecclesiastical Record, of Dublin. In this country theAve Mariais now engaged in republishing Mr. Lawlor's sketch of the history. We trust our readers will thank us for placing beforethem the full and authentic history of M. Lasserre, a work which has received the favorable notice of the most competent judges, and has been honored by a brief of felicitation from the Holy Father. The author, who was himself one of the subjects of the miraculous efficacy of the water of the fountain of Lourdes, has spared no pains to make his work perfectly satisfactory. The evidence, which he has collected and arranged with consummate care and skill, leaves nothing to be desired in respect to the proof of the reality and the supernatural character of the events related. The charm of his style, the subtle and powerful irony which he employs with so much effect against the sceptics who deny the possibility of any sort of supernatural incidents, and the vivacity of his descriptions, make his work extremely pleasant and profitable reading. Our devout Catholic readers will find great delight in perusing M. Lasserre's narrative; and others, although they may receive it with a smile of incredulity, and perhaps favor us with a few witticisms in respect to its contents, will find it to be, as the French sceptics have found it, a very tough subject for any thing like serious and reasonable refutation.—Editor of The Catholic World.
The little town of Lourdes is situated in the department of the Upper Pyrenees, at the entrance to the seven vales of Lavedan, and between the low hills that sink into the plain of Tarbes and the steeper ranges which grow into the Grande Montagne. Its houses, built irregularly on a natural terrace, are grouped, in almost absolute disorder, around the base of a rocky spur, on the summit of which the formidable castle sits like an eyrie. Along the base of the cliff, on the side opposite the town, the Gave dashes boisterously through groves of alder, ash, and poplar, and, pausing at numerous dykes, turns the equally sonorous machinery of several mills. The hum of the driving-wheels and the jar of the rattling stones mingle with the music of the winds and the splash of the rushing water.
The Gave is formed by several torrents from the upper valleys, which spring from the glaciers, whose spotless snow covers the barren sides of the Haute Montagne. The principal tributary comes from the cascade of Gavarnie, which falls from one of those peaks never scaled by man. Leaving on its right the town, the castle, and, with one exception, all the mills of Lourdes, the Gave hastens toward Pau, which it passes with all speed, to throw itself into the Adour, and thence into the sea.
In the neighborhood of Lourdes, the country which skirts the Gave is by turns wild and savage, and fair and smiling. Blooming meadows, cultivated fields, woodland, and barren cliffs are alternately presented to the gaze. Here are fertile plains and smiling landscapes, the highway of Pau, never without its wagons, horsemen, and pedestrian travellers; yonder, the giant mountains and their awful solitudes.
The castle of Lourdes, almost impregnable before the invention of artillery, was formerly the key of the Pyrenees. Tradition says that Charlemagne, warring with the infidels, was unable to carry this stronghold. Scarcely had he determined to raise the siege, when an eagle seated itself on the highest tower of the citadel, and let fall a large fish which it had caught up from some neighboring lake. Either because it happened on the day when the holy church prescribes abstinence from flesh-meat, or because the fish was at that time thepopular symbol of Christianity, the infidel commander, Mirat, saw in this fact a prodigy, and, demanding instruction, was converted to the true faith. This conversion was all that was necessary to bring his castle into the hands of Christendom. Nevertheless, the Saracen stipulated, as says the chronicler, "that in becoming the knight of Our Lady, the Mother of God, his lands, both for himself and his descendants, should be free from every worldly fief, and should belong to her alone."
The arms of the town still bear, in testimony of this extraordinary fact, the eagle and the fish. Lourdes carries, on a red field, three golden towers, pointed with sable, on a silver rock; the middle tower is higher than the others, and is surmounted by a black spread eagle, limbed with gold, holding in his beak a silver trout.
During the middle ages, the castle of Lourdes was an object of terror to the surrounding country. At one time in the name of the English, at another in that of the Counts of Bigorre, it was occupied by robber chieftains, who cared for little besides themselves, and who plundered the inhabitants of the plain for forty or fifty leagues around. They even had the audacity, it is said, to seize goods and men at the very gates of Montpellier, and then to retreat, like birds of prey, to their inaccessible abode.
In the eighteenth century, the castle of Lourdes became a state-prison. It was the Bastille of the Pyrenees. The revolution opened the gates of this prison to three or four persons, confined there by the arbitrary command of despotism, and in return peopled it with several hundred criminals of quite another description. A contemporary writer has copied from the jailer's record the offences for which the prisoners had been immured. Besides the name of each prisoner, the specifications of the crime are thus formulated: "Unpatriotic.—Refusing to give the kiss of peace to citizen N—— before the altar of our country.—Busybody.—Drunkard.—Indifferent about the revolution.—Hypocritical character, reserved in his opinions.—Lying character.—A peace-loving miser.—Indifferent toward the revolution," etc., etc.[287]
We may thus see what reason the revolution had to complain of the arbitrary conduct of kings, and also how it changed the frightful despotism of the monarchy into a reign of peace, toleration, and perfect liberty.
The empire still retained the fortress of Lourdes as a state-prison, and this character it kept until the return of the Bourbons. After the restoration, the terrible castle of the middle ages naturally became a place of less importance, garrisoned by a company of infantry.
The tower still remains the key of the Pyrenees, but in a very different way from what it was formerly. Lourdes is at the junction of the roads to the various watering-places. In going to Barèges, to Saint-Sauveur, to Cauterets, to Bagnères-de-Bigorre, or from Cauterets or Pau to Luchon, in any case, one must pass through Lourdes. During the fashionable season, countless diligences, employed in the service of the baths, stop at the Hotel de la Poste. Generally they allow the travellers sufficient time to dine, to visit the castle, and to admire the country, before passing on.
Thus from the constant visits of bathers and tourists from all parts of Europe, this little town has been brought to quite an advanced state of civilization.
In 1858, the earliest date of our story, the Parisian journals were regularly received at Lourdes. TheRevue des Deux-Mondescounted there many subscribers. The inns and cafés presented their guests with three numbers of theSiècle, that of the latest date and the two preceding ones. Thebourgeoisieand clergy divided their patronage between theJournal des Débats, thePresse,Moniteur,UniversandUnion.
Lourdes had a club, a printing-house, and a journal. Thesous préfetwas at Argelès; but the sorrow which the inhabitants of Lourdes showed for the absence of this functionary was tempered by the joy of possessing theTribunal de première instance, that is, three judges, a president, aprocureur impérial, and a deputy. Around this brilliant centre revolved as inferior satellites, a justice of the peace, a commissary of police, six constables, and seven gendarmes, one of whom was invested with the rank of corporal. Inside of the town we find a hospital and a prison; and circumstances sometimes come to pass, as we shall have occasion to state, in which independent spirits, nourished with the sound and humane doctrines of theSiècle, think that criminals should be put into the hospital and the sick into the jail. But these gentlemen of such extraordinary reasoning powers are not in exclusive possession at the bar of Lourdes and in the medical profession; men of great learning and high distinction are to be met—remarkable minds and impartial observers of facts—such as are not always to be found in more important cities.
Mountaineers are generally endowed with strong and practical good sense; and the people of this neighborhood, almost unmixed with foreign blood, excel in this respect. Scarcely one place in France could be cited where the schools are better attended than at Lourdes. There is hardly a boy who does not for several years go to lay-teachers or to the institution of the "Brothers;" hardly a little girl who does not complete the course of instruction at the school of the Sisters of Nevers. Far better taught than the mechanics of most of our cities, the people of Lourdes still preserve the simplicity of rural life. They have warm veins and southern heads, but upright hearts and a perfect morality. They are honest, religious, and not over-inclined to novelties.
Certain local institutions, dating back to forgotten times, contribute toward maintaining this happy state of things. The people of these regions, long before the pretended discoveries of modern progress, had learned and practised, under the shadow of the church, those ideas of union and prudence which have given rise to our mutual aid societies. Such associations have for centuries existed and worked at Lourdes. They date from the middle ages; they have survived the revolution, and philanthropists would long since have made them famous, if they had not drawn their vitality from religion, and if they were not called to-day, as in the fifteenth century, "confraternities."
"Nearly all the people," says M. de Lagrèze, "enter these pious and benevolent associations. The mechanics, whom the title of brotherhood thus unites, place their labor under heavenly patronage, and exchange with one another assistance in work and the succors of Christian charity. The common alms-box receives a weekly offering from the stout and healthy artisan, to return it at some future day when the charitable hands can no longer earn wages."
"Nearly all the people," says M. de Lagrèze, "enter these pious and benevolent associations. The mechanics, whom the title of brotherhood thus unites, place their labor under heavenly patronage, and exchange with one another assistance in work and the succors of Christian charity. The common alms-box receives a weekly offering from the stout and healthy artisan, to return it at some future day when the charitable hands can no longer earn wages."
On the death of a laborer the association pays the funeral expenses and accompanies the body to its resting-place.
"Each confraternity except two, who share the high altar between them, has a particular chapel, whose name it takes, and which it supports by the collection made every Sunday. The confraternity of Notre Dames des Grâces is made up of farmers, tillers of the soil; that of Notre Dame de Monsarrat, of masons; that of Notre Dame du Mont Carmel, of slaters; that of St. Anne, of carpenters; that of St. Lucy, of tailors and dress-makers; that of the Ascension, of quarry-workers; that of the Blessed Sacrament, of church-wardens; that of St. James and St. John, of all who have received either of these names in holy baptism."
"Each confraternity except two, who share the high altar between them, has a particular chapel, whose name it takes, and which it supports by the collection made every Sunday. The confraternity of Notre Dames des Grâces is made up of farmers, tillers of the soil; that of Notre Dame de Monsarrat, of masons; that of Notre Dame du Mont Carmel, of slaters; that of St. Anne, of carpenters; that of St. Lucy, of tailors and dress-makers; that of the Ascension, of quarry-workers; that of the Blessed Sacrament, of church-wardens; that of St. James and St. John, of all who have received either of these names in holy baptism."
The women are likewise divided Into similar religious associations. One of them, "the Congregation of Children of Mary," has a special character. It is also a society for mutual aid and encouragement, but in relation to spiritual things. To enter this congregation, although it is merely an association of persons living in the secular state, and not a religious society, a young person must give evidence that she possesses a well-tried steadiness of character. The young girls look forward to it for a long time before they reach the proper age for admission. The members of the congregation are bound never to put themselves in danger by frequenting worldly festivities where the religious spirit is lost, nor to adopt eccentric fashions, but to be exact in attending the meetings and instructions on Sunday. It is an honor to belong to this association, a disgrace to be excluded from it. And the amount of good which it has done in maintaining public morality and preparing good mothers of families, is truly incalculable. In many dioceses, confraternities have been founded on the same plan and after this model.
This part of the country has ever shown great devotion to the Blessed Virgin. Her sanctuaries are numerous throughout the Pyrenees from Piétat or Garaison to Bétharram. All the altars of the church of Lourdes have been dedicated under the invocation of the Mother of God.
Such was Lourdes ten years ago.
The railway did not pass through it; indeed, no one then dreamed that it ever would. A much more direct route seemed to be marked out in advance for the line through the Pyrenees.
The entire town and fortress are situated, as we have said, on the right bank of the Gave, which, prevented from going north by the rocky foundation of the castle, turns at a right angle to the west. An old bridge, built at some distance above the first houses communicates with the plains, meadows, forests, and mountains of the left bank.
On this side of the stream, below the bridge, and nearly opposite the castle, an aqueduct conducts much of the water of the Gave into a large canal. The latter rejoins the main stream at the distance of one kilometre below, after having passed along the base of the cliffs of Massabielle. The long island thus formed by the Gave and by the canal is a large and fertile meadow. In the neighborhood it is called l'Ile du Châlet, or more briefly, le Châlet. The mill of Sâvy is the only one on the left bank, and is built across the canal, thus serving as a bridge. This mill and le Châlet belong to a citizen of Lourdes, M. de Laffite. In 1858, as wild a place as could be found in the neighborhood of the thriving little town, which we have described, was at the foot of these cliffs of Massabielle, where the mill-race rejoins the Gave. A few paces from the junction, on the banks of the river, the steep rock is pierced at its base by three irregular excavations, fantastically arranged, and communicatinglike the pores of a huge sponge. The singularity of these excavations renders them difficult to be described. The first and largest is on a level with the ground. It resembles a trader's booth, or a kiln roughly built, and cut vertically in two, thus forming a half dome. The entrance, formed into a distorted arch, is about four metres in height. The breadth of the grotto, a little less than its depth, is from twelve to fifteen metres. From this entrance the rocky roof lowers and narrows on the right and left.
Above and to the right of the spectator, are found two openings in the rock, which seem like adjoining caves. Seen from without, the principal one of these openings has an oval form, and is about the size of an ordinary house window or niche in a church wall. It pierces the rock above, and at a depth of two metres divides, descending on one side to the interior of the grotto and ascending on the other toward the outside of the rock, where its orifice forms the second cave of which we have spoken, which is of use to let in light upon the others. An eglantine growing from a cleft in the rock extends its long branches around the base of this orifice, in the form of a niche. At the foot of this system of caves, so easy to comprehend to one who looks upon it, but complicated enough for one who tries to give merely a word-sketch, the water of the canal rushes over a chaos of enormous stones to meet the Gave, a few steps farther on. The grotto, then, is close by the lower point of the Ile du Châlet, formed, as we have said, by the Gave and the canal. The caverns are called the Grotte de Massabielle, from the cliffs in which they are situated. "Massabielle" signifies in thepatoisof the place, "old cliffs." On the river banks, below, a steep and uncultivated slope, belonging to thecommune, extends for some distance. Here the swineherds of Lourdes frequently bring their animals to feed. When a storm arises, these poor people shelter themselves in the grotto, as do likewise a few fishermen who cast their lines in the Gave. Like other caves of this kind, the rock is dry in ordinary weather, and slightly damp in times of rain. But this dampness and dripping of the rainy season can be noticed only on the right side of the entrance. This is the side on which the storms always beat, driven by the west wind; and the phenomena here take place which can be noticed on the honey-combed walls of stone houses, similarly exposed, and built with bad mortar. The left side and floor, however, are always as dry as the walls of a parlor. The accidental dampness of the west side even sets off the dryness of the other parts of the grotto.
Above this triple cavern the cliffs of Massabielle rise almost into peaks, draped with masses of ivy and boxwood, and folds of heather and moss. Tangled briers, hazel shoots, eglantines, and a few trees, whose branches the winds often break, have struck root in clefts of the rock, wherever the crumbling mountain has produced or the wings of the storm have borne a few handfuls of soil. The eternal Sower, whose invisible hand fills with stars and planets the immensity of space, who has drawn from nothing the ground which we tread, and its plants and animals, the Creator of the millions of men who people the earth, and the myriads of angels who dwell in heaven, this God, whose wealth and power know no bounds, takes care that no atom shall be lost in the vast regions of his handiwork. He leaves barren no spot which is capable of producing any thing. Throughout the extent of ourglobe, countless germs float in the air, covering the earth with verdure, where there seemed before no chance of life for even a single herb, or tuft of moss. Thus, O Divine Sower! thy graces, like invisible but fruitful motes, float about and rest upon our souls. And, if we are barren, it is because we present hearts harder and more arid than the rocky and the beaten highway, or covered with tangled thorns that prevent the up-growing of thy heavenly seed.
It was requisite to the ensuing narrative to describe first the scene where its events took place. But it is of no less importance to point out in advance that profound moral truth, which is the starting-point from which this history begins, in the course of which, as we shall see, God manifested his power in a visible manner. These reflections will, moreover, delay only for an instant the commencement of our narrative.
Every one has noticed the striking contrasts presented by the various conditions of men who live on this earth, where wicked and good, rich and needy, are mingled together, and where a thin wall often separates the hovel from the palace. On one side are all the pleasures of life, softly arranged in the midst of rare delicacies, comfort, and the elegance of luxury; on the other, the horrors of want, cold, hunger, sickness, and all the sad train of human woes. For the former, adulation, joyous visits, charming friendships. For the latter, indifference, loneliness, and neglect. Whether it fears the importunity of his spoken or his mute appeals, or shrinks from the rebuke of his wretched nakedness, the world avoids the poor man, and makes its arrangements without regard to him. The rich form an exclusive circle, which they call "good society," and they regard as unworthy of serious attention the existence of those secondary but "indispensable" beings. When they hire the services of one of the latter—even when they are good people and accustomed to succor the needy—it is always in a patronizing way. They never use, in this case, the language and tone which they apply to one of their own kind. Except a few rare Christians, no one treats the poor man as an equal and a brother. Except the saint—alas! too rare in these days—who follows out the idea of looking upon the wretched as representing Christ! In the world, properly so called, the vast world, the poor are absolutely forsaken. Weighed down beneath the burden of toil and care, despised and abandoned, does it not seem as if they were cursed by their Maker? And, yet, it is just the contrary; they are the best beloved of the Father. While the world has been pronounced accursed by the infallible word of Christ, on the other hand, the poor, the suffering, the humble, are God's "good society." "Ye are my friends," he has said to them in his Gospel. He has done more; he has identified himself with them. "What you have done to the least of these, you have done also to me."
Moreover, when the Son of God came upon the earth, he chose to be born, and to live and die, among the poor, and to be a poor man. From the poor he selected his apostles and his principal disciples, the first-born of his church. And, in the long history of that same church, it is upon the poor that he lavishes his greatest spiritual favors. In every age, and with few exceptions, apparitions, visions, and particular revelations have been the privilege of those whom the world disdains. When, in his wisdom, God sees fit to manifest himself sensiblyto men, by these mysterious phenomena, he descends into the dwellings of his servants and particular friends. And mark why he prefers the houses of the poor and humble. Two thousand years have only served to verify that saying of the apostle, "The weak things of the world hath God chosen, that he may confound the strong." (1 Cor. i. 27.)
The facts which we are about to state will perhaps furnish further proof of this truth.
In 1858, the eleventh of February opened the week of profane rejoicing which from time immemorial has preceded the austerities of Lent. It was theJeudi-Gras, or Thursday before Quinquagesima. The weather was cold and slightly overcast, but very calm. The clouds hung motionless in the heavens; there was no breeze abroad; and the atmosphere was perfectly still. At times a few drops of rain fell from the skies. This day is celebrated by special privilege in the diocese of Tarbes as the feast of the illustrious shepherdess of France, St. Genevieve.[288]
Eleven o'clock in the morning had already sounded from the church tower of Lourdes.
While all the neighborhood was preparing for the festivities, one family of poor people who lived as tenants of a miserable dwelling in the Rue des Petits-Fossés, had not even enough wood to cook their scanty dinner. The father, still a young man, was by trade a miller, and had for some time endeavored to run a little mill which he had leased on one of the streamlets that go to make up the Gave. But his business exacted advances, the people being accustomed to have their wheat ground on credit; and the poor miller had been forced to give the mill back to the firm, and his labor, instead of putting him in better circumstances, had only helped to throw him into utter poverty. Waiting for brighter days, he labored—not at his own place, for he had no property, not even a small garden—but at various places belonging to his neighbors, who employed him occasionally as a day laborer. His name was François Soubirous, and he was married to a faithful wife, Louise Castérot, who was a good Christian, and kept up his courage by loving sympathy. They had four children: two daughters, the elder of whom was fourteen years of age; and two boys, still quite young, the smaller being scarcely four years old.
For fifteen days only, had their older daughter, a puny child from infancy, lived with them. This is the little girl who is to play an important part in this narrative, and we have carefully studied all the details and particulars of her life. At the time of her birth, her mother, being ill, was unable to nurse the child, and she was consequently sent to the neighboring village of Bartrès. Here the infant remained after being weaned. Louise Soubirous, having become a mother for the second time, would have been kept at home by the care of two children and hindered from going out to daily service or to the fields, which, however, would not be the case if her care were limited to one. Accordingly the parents left their first-born at Bartrès. They paid for her support, sometimes in money, more often in kind, five francs a month.
When the little girl grew old enough to be useful, and the question arose as to bringing her home, the good peasants who had reared her found themselves attached to her, and, consideringher as one of their own, no longer charged her parents any thing, and employed her to tend their sheep. Thus she grew up in her adopted family, passing her days in solitude on the lonely hill-tops, where her humble flock grazed.
Of prayers she knew none except the rosary. Whether her foster-mother had recommended it to her, or whether it was the dictate of her pure and innocent heart, she kept up the hourly practice of reciting this prayer of the simple. Then she amused herself with those natural playthings which kind providence furnishes for the children of the poor, and with which they are more content than their richer cousins with costly toys. She played with the pebbles, piling up miniature castles, with the flowers which she culled on every side, with the water of the brooklet, where she launched and followed great fleets of leaf-boats; besides, she had her pets among the flock. "Of all my lambs," she said, "there is one that I prefer to all the rest." "And which is it?" asked somebody. "The one that I most love is the smallest one." And she delighted in fondling and caressing it. She herself was among children like her own darling in the flock. Although she was already fourteen years old, she seemed no more than eleven or twelve. Without being rendered infirm, she was subject to asthmatic affections, which at times caused her great pain. She bore her ills patiently and accepted her physical sufferings with that resignation which seems so difficult to the rich, but to the needy so very natural.
In this innocent and silent school the poor shepherdess learned that which the world knows not; the simplicity of soul which pleases the heart of God. Far from every impure influence, conversing with the Blessed Virgin Mary, passing her time in crowning her with prayers and telling her chaplet, this little maid preserved that absolute purity and baptismal innocence which the breath of the world so easily tarnishes, even in the best. Such was this childish soul, bright and calm as the unknown lakes which lie hidden among lofty mountains and silently reflect the splendors of heaven. "Blessed are the clean of heart," says the Gospel; "for they shall see God."
These great gifts are concealed treasures, and the humility which possesses them is often unconscious of their presence. The little girl of fourteen years charmed all who happened to approach her, and yet she was entirely unaware of it. She considered herself as the least and most backward of her age. Indeed, she did not know how to read or write. Moreover, she was an entire stranger to the French tongue, and knew only her own poorpatoisof the Pyrenees. She had never learned the catechism, and in this respect her ignorance was extraordinary. The Our Father, Hail Mary, Apostles' Creed, and Glory be to the Father, which make up the chaplet, constituted the sum of her religious knowledge. Hence it is unnecessary to add that she had not yet made her first communion. It was to prepare her for this, that the Soubirous determined to bring her home, in spite of their poverty, and send her to the catechetical instructions at Lourdes.
She had now been for two weeks under her father's roof. Alarmed by her asthma and her frail appearance, her mother watched over her with particular care. While the other children went barefoot in their sabots, (wooden shoes,) she was provided with stockings; and while her sister and brothers went freely out of doors, she was constantly employed in the house. The child, accustomed to the open air, would very gladly have gone out into it.
The day, then, wasJeudi-Gras, eleven o'clock had struck, and these poor people had no wood to cook their dinner.
"Go, and gather some sticks by the Gave or on the common," said the mother to Marie, her second daughter.
Here, as in many other places, the poor have a sort of customary right to glean the dried branches which the wind blows from the trees in thecommune, and to the driftwood which the torrent leaves among the pebbles on its bank.
Marie put on her sabots. The eldest child, of whom we have been speaking, the little shepherdess of Bartrès, looked wistfully at her sister.
"Let me go, too?" she finally asked of her mother. "I will carry my little bundle of sticks."
"No," replied Louise Soubirous, "you have a cough, and you will catch more cold."
A little girl from a neighboring house, named Jeanne Abadie, about fifteen years of age, having come in during this conversation, was likewise preparing to go for wood. All joined in importuning, and the mother allowed herself to be persuaded.
The child at once covered her head with her kerchief, tied on one side, as is the custom among peasants of the south. This did not appear sufficient to her mother.
"Put on yourcapulet," said the latter. The capulet is a graceful garment worn by the dwellers in the Pyrenees. It is at once a hood and a mantle, made of very stout cloth, sometimes white as fleece, sometimes of a bright scarlet color; it covers the head and falls over the shoulders to the waist. In cold or stormy weather, the women use it to wrap their neck and arms, and, when the garment is too warm, they fold it up in a square and wear it as a cap upon their heads. The capulet of the little shepherdess of Bartrès was white.
The three children left the town, and crossing the bridge, reached the left bank of the Gave. They passed the mill of M. de Laffite and entered the Chalêt, gathering here and there sticks for their little fagots. They walked down the river's course, the delicate child following at some distance her stronger companions. Less fortunate than they, she had not yet found any thing, and her apron was empty, while her sister and Jeanne had begun to load themselves with twigs and chips.
Clad in a black gown, well worn and patched, her pale countenance inclosed in the fold of the capulet which fell over her shoulders, and her feet protected by a large pair of sabots, she wore an air of grace and rustic innocence which appealed more to the heart than to the senses. She was still quite small for her age. Although her childish features had been touched by the sun, they had not lost their natural delicacy. Her fine black hair scarcely appeared from beneath her kerchief. Her brow, open to the air, was free from any line or wrinkle. Under her arching eyebrows, her eyes of brown, in her softer than blue, had a deep and tranquil beauty whose clearness no evil passion had ever disturbed. Hers was the "single" eye of which the Gospel speaks. Her mouth, wonderfully expressive, revealed the habitual tenderness of her soul and pity for every kind of suffering. Her whole appearance, while it pleased, also possessed that extraordinary power of attraction exerted by lofty minds. And what was it that gave this secret power to a child so poor, so ignorant, clothed in tatters? It wasthe greatest and rarest of possessions, the majesty of innocence.
We have not yet told her name. She had for her patron a great and holy doctor of the church, whose genius was especially sheltered under the protection of the Mother of God, the author of theMemorare, the illustrious St. Bernard. Following a fashion which has its charms, his great name, given to this humble peasant, had taken a childish and rustic form. The little maid bore a title as gracious and as pretty as herself. She was called Bernadette.
She followed her sister and companion through the fields that belong to the mill, and sought, but vainly, among the grass and shrubbery for some bits of wood to warm their family hearth. So Ruth or Noemi might have appeared, going to glean in the harvest-fields of Booz.
Straying in this manner, the three little girls reached the lower end of the Châlet opposite the triple cave, the grotto of Massabielle, which we have endeavored to describe. They were separated from it only by the mill-race, which bathes the foot of the cliffs, and whose current is usually very strong. To-day, however, the mill of Sâvy has stopped work, and the small quantity of water which leaks into the aqueduct makes but a slender stream, very easy to wade. The fallen branches of various trees lie thick among the rocks in this lonely and ordinarily inaccessible place. Rejoiced at this discovery, bustling and active as Martha, Jeanne and Marie took off their sabots, and in an instant were across the stream.
"The water is very cold," they cried as they hastily put on their wooden shoes.
It was the month of February, and these mountain torrents, fresh from the glacial snows, are always icy cold.
Bernadette, less alert or less eager, tarrying behind, was still on the nearer side of the stream. It was a more serious undertaking for her to cross. She wore stockings, while Jeanne and Marie had only to take off their sabots, in order to wade. Even before the exclamation of her companions, she feared the cold of the water.
"Throw in a couple of large stones," she cried, "so that I may go over without getting wet."
The two little girls, already engaged in making up a pair of fagots, did not wish to lose time by turning from their task.
"Do as we have done," said Jeanne, "take off your shoes."
Bernadette resigned herself, and, seated on a large stone, began to do as she was bid.
It was about noon; the Angelus was about to sound from all the belfries of the Pyrenees.
She was in the act of drawing off her first stocking, when she heard near her a shock like a blast of wind, bursting with irresistible force upon the fields. She thought it was a sudden storm, and instinctively looked behind her. To her great surprise, the poplars which border the Gave were perfectly motionless. Not even the slightest breeze stirred their boughs.
"I must be dreaming," she said, and, still thinking of the noise, she could not believe that she had heard it. She turned again to her stocking. At this instant the impetuous roar of this unknown wind was heard again. Bernadette raised her glance, and uttered, or would have uttered, a loud cry, but it died upon her lips. Her limbs trembled and gave way. Astounded by what she saw, and as ifshrinking from it, she fell upon her knees.
A vision of surpassing wonder was before her eyes. The child's story, the countless inquiries to which she has since been subjected by thousands of active and shrewd investigators, have brought out all the details, and enabled us to trace each line of the general appearance of that wonderful being who met at this moment the ravished glance of Bernadette.
Above the grotto, before which Marie and Jeanne, busily employed and bent toward the ground, were gathering sticks, in the rude niche formed by the rock, surrounded by a heavenly glory, stood a lady of matchless beauty.
The ineffable radiance which floated around her did not hurt the eyes, like the brightness of the sun. On the contrary, this aureole of soft and gentle light irresistibly attracted the glance, which it seemed to relieve and fill with pleasure. It was like the gleam of the morning-star. But there was nothing vague or misty about the apparition. It had not the shifting contour of a fantastic vision; it was a reality, a human body, which to the eye seemed palpable as our own flesh, and which resembled the figure of an ordinary human person in all respects, except that it was surrounded by a luminous halo, and was radiant with celestial beauty. The lady was of medium height. She looked very youthful, like one who had attained her twentieth year, without losing any of the tender delicacy of girlhood, which usually fades so soon. This beauty bore in her countenance the impress of everlasting durability. Moreover, in her features the heavenly lines blended, without disturbing their mutual harmony, the peculiar charms of the four seasons of human life. The innocent candor of the child, the spotless purity of the virgin, the calm tenderness of the loftiest maternity, a wisdom surpassing the lore of centuries, blended together without effacing each other, in this wonderful and youthful countenance. To whom shall we liken her in this sinful world, where the rays of beauty are scattered, broken, or discolored, and seldom reach us without some impure mixture? Every image, every comparison would only abase this unspeakable type. No majesty, no excellence, no simplicity here below could ever give us an idea whereby we might better understand it. It is not with the lamps of earth that we can light up the stars of heaven.
The regularity and ideal beauty of these features surpassed all description. It could only be said that their oval curve was of infinite grace, that the eyes were blue and of a tenderness that sank through the heart of the beholder to its very depths. The lips wore an expression of heavenly goodness and mildness. The brow was like the seat of the highest wisdom; that wisdom which combines universal knowledge with boundless virtue.
Her garments were of an unknown fabric, woven in the mysterious looms which serve to robe the lily of the valley; for they were white as the stainless mountain snows, and yet more splendid than the raiment of Solomon in all his glory. The vesture, long and trailing in chaste folds, revealed her virginal feet, which lightly pressed the broad branch of eglantine, and on each of which blossomed the golden mystical rose.
From her waist a sky-blue cincture, loosely tied, hung, in long bands, to the instep of her foot. Behind, and enveloping in its fulness her arms and shoulders, a white veil descended from her head to the hem of her robes.No ring, no necklace, no diadem or gem; none of those ornaments were there that human vanity loves to parade. A chaplet, whose drops of milky white slid on a golden cord, hung from her hands, fervently clasped together. The beads glided through her fingers. Yet the lips of this Queen of Virgins remained motionless. Instead of reciting the rosary, she was, perhaps, listening to the eternal echo in her own heart of that first Ave! and the deep murmur of invocation ever rising from this earth of ours. Each bead was undoubtedly a shower of heavenly graces that fell upon souls like the liquid diamonds into the chalice of the flower.
She kept silence; but later, her own words and the miraculous facts which we shall have to record, were to attest that she was truly the Immaculate Virgin, the sinless and stainless among women, Mary, the Mother of God.
This wonderful apparition looked upon Bernadette, who, as we have seen, shrinking and speechless, had fallen upon her knees.
The child, in her first movement of fear, had instinctively seized her rosary; and, holding it in her hands, endeavored to make the sign of the cross. But she trembled so violently as to render this impossible. "Fear not," said Jesus to his disciples, when he came walking on the waves of the sea of Tiberias. The look and smile of the Blessed Virgin appeared to say the same thing to this frightened little shepherdess.
With a sweet, grave gesture, which seemed like a benediction to earth and heaven, she, as if to encourage the child, made the sign of the cross. And the hand of Bernadette, raised, as it were, by her hand who is called the Help of Christians, repeated the sacred sign.
"Fear not, it is I," Jesus said to his disciples.
The child felt no more fear. Astonished, charmed, scarcely trusting her senses, and wiping her eyes, whose glance was riveted by the heavenly vision, no longer knowing what to think, she humbly recited her rosary: "I believe in God"—"Hail, Mary! full of grace!"
When she had finished saying the last "Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost," the bright Virgin suddenly disappeared, reëntering that eternal paradise, the dwelling of the Holy Trinity, whence she had come.
Bernadette felt like one who has suddenly fallen from a great height. She stared vacantly around. The Gave still flowed on, moaning over the pebbles and broken rocks; but the noise seemed to her more sorrowful than before; the waters themselves seemed more gloomy, the landscape and sunlight less bright than formerly. In front the cliffs of Massabielle extended, and beneath them her companions were still engaged in collecting the sticks of wood. Above the grotto were still the niche and the arch of eglantine; but nothing unusual appeared there; no trace remained of the celestial visitor. They were no longer the gate of heaven.
The scene which we have just related must have lasted for a quarter of an hour; not that Bernadette was conscious of the lapse of time; but it may be measured by the circumstance that she had been able to recite five decades of the rosary.
Completely restored to herself, Bernadette finished removing her shoes and stockings, and rejoined her companions. Absorbed by what she had seen, she did not dread the cold of the water. All her childish powerswere concentrated in recalling the facts of this strange apparition.
Jeanne and Marie had seen her fall upon her knees and betake herself to prayer; but as this, thank God, is not a rare occurrence with these mountaineers, and as they were occupied at their task, they had paid no further attention.
Bernadette was surprised at the perfect calmness which her sister and Jeanne evinced. They had just finished their work and, entering the grotto, began to play as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
"Have you seen nothing?" asked the child.
They then noticed that she seemed disturbed and agitated. "No," they replied; "have you seen any thing?"
Was it that Bernadette feared to tell what filled her soul, for fear of profanation? Did she wish to enjoy it in silence? Or was she restrained by a bashful timidity? Nevertheless, she did obey that instinct which prompts humble souls to conceal as a treasure the special graces with which God favors them.
"If you have seen nothing," said she, "I have nothing to tell you."
The little fagots were bound up. The three children began to retrace the road to Lourdes. But Bernadette could not conceal her trouble. On the way, Marie and Jeanne teased her, to find out what she had seen.
The little shepherdess yielded to their entreaties and their promise of eternal secrecy.
"I saw," she began, "something dressed in white." And she went on to describe her marvellous vision. "This is what I saw," said she in conclusion; "but do not, for the world, say anything about it."
Marie and Jeanne did not doubt a syllable. The soul in its first innocence is naturally believing. Doubt is not the besetting sin of childhood. And even were they disposed to be sceptical, the earnest accents of Bernadette, still agitated and full of what she had seen, would have irresistibly led them to believe. Marie and Jeanne did not doubt, but they were frightened. The children of the poor are naturally timid. Nor is it strange, since sufferings come to them from every side.
"It is, perhaps, something that will do us harm," said they. "Let us never go there again, Bernadette."
Scarcely had the confidants of the little shepherdess reached the house, when the secret fairly boiled over. Marie told it all to her mother. "What is all this stuff, Bernadette, that your sister has been telling me?" The little girl repeated her story. Marie Soubirous shrugged her shoulders.
"You have been deceived, child. It was nothing at all. You thought that you saw something, but you did not. This is all fancy and imagination."
Bernadette still adhered to her story.
"At any rate," said her mother, "never go near that place again. I forbid it."
This prohibition wounded Bernadette to the heart. For, ever since the apparition had vanished, she had felt the greatest desire to see it once more.
Nevertheless, she was resigned, and said nothing.
Two days, Friday and Saturday, passed. The extraordinary event was continually present to the mind of Bernadette, and became the absorbing topic of conversation with her sister Marie, with Jeanne, and a few other children. Bernadette still bore in her mind the memory of this heavenlyvision; and a passion—if one may use a word so profane to designate so pure a sentiment in a heart so innocent and girlish—a burning desire to see again this incomparable lady had taken possession of her soul. This name of "lady" was the one which they naturally used in their rustic language.
Whenever she was asked if this apparition resembled any one celebrated in the place for beauty, she shook her head and said sweetly, "Not at all. This does not give the faintest idea of her. She is of a beauty impossible to express."
She longed to see her once more. The other children were divided between fear and curiosity.
On Sunday morning, the sun rose brightly; the weather was beautiful. The open winter in the valleys of the Pyrenees frequently has days which equal spring.
On returning from mass, Bernadette begged Marie and Jeanne and two or three other children to insist with her mother and persuade her to take off the prohibition and permit them to return to the cliffs of Massabielle.
"Perhaps it may be some wicked thing," said the children.
Bernadette answered that she was not afraid, for it had such a wonderfully kind face.
"At all events," replied the children, who, better taught than the poor shepherdess of Bartrès, knew something of the catechism—"at all events, we must throw some holy water at it. If it comes from the devil, it will go away. Say to it, 'If you come from God, approach! If you come from the devil, be off!'"
This is not the precise formula for exorcism; but these little theologians of Lourdes could not have reasoned better in this matter, if they had been doctors of the Sorbonne.
It was therefore decided, in this juvenile council, that one of them should carry the holy water. A certain feeling of apprehension had stolen over Bernadette on account of this talk. Nevertheless it only remained to obtain permission.
The children assembled after dinner to ask for it. The mother was still unwilling to remove the prohibition, alleging that the Gave ran close to the cliffs of Massabielle, and that there might be danger; that the hour for vespers was near at hand, and that they ought not to run the risk of being late; and that the whole story was pure childish prattle, etc. But every body knows what a regiment of children can do. All promised to be careful, to be quick, etc., and the matter ended by the mother's yielding.
The little band went to the church, and there prayed for some time. One of Bernadette's companions had provided a small bottle. It was now filled with holy water.
On arriving at the grotto, nothing was to be seen.
"Let us pray," said Bernadette, "and recite the rosary."
The children knelt and began the rosary, each to herself.
Suddenly the face of Bernadette appeared to be transfigured. Extraordinary emotion was manifested on her features, and her countenance seemed to shine with heavenly light.
With feet resting upon the rock, clad as formerly, the marvellous apparition again stood before her.
"Look! look!" she cried, "there it is!"
Alas! the vision of the other children was not miraculously cleared from the film which hides glorified bodies from our sight. The little girls saw nothing but the lonely rock and thebranches of eglantine, which descended to the foot of that mysterious niche, where Bernadette contemplated an unknown being. The features of Bernadette wore an expression that made it impossible to doubt that she really saw something. One of the children placed the bottle of holy water in her hands. Then, Bernadette, remembering what she had promised, arose and sprinkled the wonderful lady, who stood in the niche before her.
"If you come from God, approach!" said the little girl. And, at her words, the Blessed Virgin advanced close to the edge of the rock. She seemed to smile at the precautions of Bernadette, and, at the sacred name of God, her face shone even brighter than before.
"If you come from God, approach!" repeated Bernadette. But, seeing the heavenly goodness and love of her glorious visitor, she felt her heart sink when about to add, "If you come from the devil, go away!" These words, which had been dictated to her, seemed monstrous in the presence of this incomparable being; and they fled from her thoughts without mounting to her lips. She prostrated herself again, and continued to recite her rosary, to which the Blessed Virgin seemed to listen, telling also her own. At the end of her prayer, the apparition vanished.
Returning to Lourdes, Bernadette was full of joy. She rehearsed in the secrecy of her heart these extraordinary scenes. Her companions felt a sort of terror in her presence. The transfiguration of the countenance of Bernadette had convinced them of the reality of the supernatural vision. And every thing that surpasses nature brings with it a sense of awe. "Let not the Lord speak to us lest we die," said the Jews of the Old Testament.
"We are afraid, Bernadette. Never go to that place again. Perhaps what you have seen will do us mischief." So said the timid companions of the little seer.
According to their promise, the children returned in time for vespers. When they were over, numbers of people came out to walk and enjoy the last rays of the sun, so delightful on these fine winter days. The story of the little girls was told among various groups of walkers, and passed from mouth to mouth. Thus it was that the rumor of these strange things began to spread in the town. The report, which at first had agitated only a humble band of children, increased like a tide-wave, and reached every fireside. Quarry-workers, (very numerous at this place,) tailors, laboring-men, peasants, servants, waiting-maids, and other poor people conversed about this matter, some believing, some denying, others openly scoffing at, and many exaggerating, the facts of this rumored apparition. With one or two exceptions, the bourgeoisie did not pay the least attention to all this talk. Strange to say, the father and mother of Bernadette, while they confided fully in her sincerity, regarded the apparition as an illusion.
"She is only a child," they said. "She thinks she has seen something; but she has seen nothing. It is only the imagination of a little girl." Nevertheless, the extraordinary precision of Bernadette's recital startled them. At times, won by the earnest accents of their daughter, they felt their incredulity shaken. And while they desired that she should not revisit the grotto, they did not dare to forbid her. She did not do so, however, until Thursday.
During the first days of the week, several persons came to see the Soubirous, in order to question Bernadette. Her answers were brief and exact. She might be laboring under a delusion, but it was only necessary to see her to know that she was in good faith. Her perfect simplicity, her innocent age, her tone of earnestness, all contributed to give her words a force which carried conviction. All who visited her were entirely satisfied of her veracity, and persuaded that something extraordinary had happened at the cliffs of Massabielle.
The statement, nevertheless, of an ignorant little girl could not suffice to establish firmly an event so entirely out of the ordinary course of things. There must be other proofs besides the word of a child.
But what was this apparition, supposing it to have been real? Was it an angel of light, or a spirit from the abyss? Was it not some suffering soul, wandering and seeking prayers? Might it not have been so-and-so or so-and-so, who, but recently dead in the odor of sanctity, had appeared to manifest the glory of the life to come? Faith and superstition each proposed their hypotheses.
Did the mournful ceremonies of Ash-Wednesday help to incline a certain lady and a young girl of Lourdes to one of these solutions? Did they see in the shining whiteness of the garments which the apparition wore, some likeness to a shroud or some sign of a ghost? We know not. The young girl was named Antoinette Peyret, and was a member of the society of the Children of Mary; the other was Mme. Millet.[289]
"It is undoubtedly some soul from Purgatory, who implores us to have masses offered up for it." So they thought; and they went to see Bernadette.
"Ask this lady who she is, and what she wishes," said they. "Get her to explain it to you; or, if you cannot understand, let her put it in writing."
Bernadette, who felt a keen desire to return to the grotto, obtained from her parents a new permission; and the following morning, Thursday, February the 18th, about six o'clock, at daybreak, and after having heard mass at half-past five, she, together with Antoinette Peyret and Mme. Millet, turned her steps in the direction of the grotto.
The repairs in the mill of M. de Laffite had been completed, and the canal which moved the machinery had been opened to the current; so that it was impossible to reach the end of their journey by the old way of the Châlet. They were obliged to ascend the side of the Espélugues, choosing a steep path which led to the forest of Lourdes; then to descend by a break-neck route to the grotto, over crags, and the steep, loose soil of Massabielle.
In the face of these unforeseen difficulties, the two companions of Bernadette were somewhat dismayed. But she, on the contrary, even then trembled with an eager desire to reach their destination. It seemed as if an invisible power sustained and endowed her with unwonted energy. She, usually so frail and weak, felt at that moment stout and strong. Her steps became so rapid as they began the ascent, that Antoinette and Mme. Millet, though both were strong and in perfect health, had a good task to keep up with her. The asthma, whichusually hindered her from running, seemed to have left her for the time being. On reaching the summit, she was neither tired nor out of breath. Although her companions were perspiring and panting, her face was perfectly calm. She descended the cliffs, which she thus traversed for the first time, with the same ease and agility, feeling conscious that an invisible power guided and sustained her. Over these steep and sharp declivities, among slippery stones, hanging over the abyss, her step was as bold and firm as if walking upon the highway. Mme. Millet and Antoinette did not endeavor to follow at the same gait. They descended slowly, and with the precaution required by so perilous a way.
Consequently, Bernadette arrived at the grotto some minutes before them. She prostrated herself and began reciting her chaplet, earnestly regarding the niche, still empty and embowered by the entwining boughs of the eglantine.
Suddenly she uttered a cry. The well-known light of the aureole shone from the depths of the cave; she heard a voice calling her.
The wonderful apparition was again visible a few steps above her. The lovely Virgin turned toward the child her face lit up with eternal beauty, and with her hand beckoned her to approach.
At this moment, after surmounting a thousand and one difficulties, the two companions of Bernadette, Antoinette and Mme. Millet, reached the spot. They saw the features of the child transfigured with ecstasy. She heard and saw them.
"She is there!" the girl cried, "she beckons me to draw near!"
"Ask if she is annoyed because we are here with you. If so, we will go away."
Bernadette looked at the Blessed Virgin, invisible to all save herself. Then she turned toward her companions. "You may remain," she answered.
The two women knelt beside the child and lighted a blessed taper, which they had brought with them. It was, beyond doubt, the first time that such a light had ever shone in this savage place. This simple act, which seemed to inaugurate a sanctuary, had in itself a mysterious solemnity.
This visible sign of adoration, this humble flame lighted by two poor women, on the supposition that the apparition was divine, was never more to be extinguished but to brighten daily, and to grow with the lapse of years. The breath of incredulity was to exhaust itself against it in vain efforts. The storm of persecution was to arise; but this flame, lit by the devotion of the people, was to point for ever toward the throne of God. While these rustic hands lighted the first illumination in this strange grotto where a child was praying, the east had changed its color from gray to gold and purple, and the sun had begun to flood the world with light and to peep over the highest crest of the mountains.
Bernadette, in ecstasy, contemplated a cloudless beauty. "Tota pulchra es, amica mea, et macula non est in te:" Thou art all beautiful, my beloved, and there is no spot in thee.
Her companions spoke to her again.
"Go toward her, if she makes a sign. Go, ask her who she is, and why she comes here?... Is she a soul from purgatory that needs our prayers, or wishes us to have masses offered up for her?... Ask her to write on this paper what she desires. We are willing to do any thing she wishes—all that is needful for her rest."
The little seer took the paper, ink,and paper, which were given her and advanced toward the apparition, whose maternal glance brightened on seeing her draw near. Nevertheless, at each step that Bernadette made, the apparition receded into the interior of the cave. The child lost sight of it for a moment, and it went under the arch of the lower grotto. There, just above her and much nearer at hand, she saw the Blessed Virgin shining in the opening of the niche.
Bernadette held in her hand the objects which had been given her; she stood on tiptoe to reach the height of the supernatural being. Her two companions advanced to hear, if possible, the conversation which was about to take place. But Bernadette, without turning, and as if obeying a gesture of the vision, signed to them not to approach. Abashed, they withdrew.
"My Lady," said the child, "if you have any thing to tell me, will you not please write what you wish?"
The heavenly Virgin smiled at this naïve request. Her lips parted and she spoke:
"What I have to tell you I do not need to write. Only do me the favor to come here every day for two weeks."
"I promise to do so!" said Bernadette.
The Blessed Virgin smiled again and made a gesture of satisfaction, showing her full confidence in the word of this poor little peasant of fourteen years. She knew that the little shepherdess of Bartrès was pure as one of those little ones whose golden heads Jesus loved to caress, saying, "Of such is the kingdom of heaven."
To the promise of Bernadette, she replied by a solemn engagement:
"And I for my part promise to make you happy, not in this world, but in the next."
To the child who accorded her a few days, she promised, in return, eternity.
Bernadette, without losing sight of the apparition, returned to her companions.
Following her glance, she noticed the eyes of the Blessed Virgin resting kindly and for some time on Antoinette Peyret, who was unmarried and a member of the Confraternity of the Children of Mary.
Bernadette told them what she had seen.
"She is looking at you now," said the child to Antoinette.
The latter was filled with pleasure by these words and always recalled them with joy.
"Ask," said they, "if she is willing to have us accompany you hither during the fortnight."
Bernadette addressed the apparition.
"They may come with you," answered the Blessed Virgin, "and also any other persons. I desire to see every body here."
Saying these words, she disappeared, leaving behind her that brilliant light with which she was surrounded, and which slowly melted away.
In this instance, as in others, the child noticed something which seemed a rule with regard to the aureole which always surrounded the Blessed Virgin.
"When the vision appears," said she, in her own language, "I see first the light and then the 'Lady;' when it disappears, the 'Lady' first vanishes and afterward the light."
TO BE CONTINUED.